Flashpoint sts-11

by Keith Douglass

  “No. After the burial at sea tomorrow, I want you to write the letter to the mother of Torpedoman Third Class Les Quinley, twenty-two years old. You get to tell her about the tragic accident that happened on the carrier and explain what a fine sailor he was and an outstanding person. Just lie like hell. Give it to me and I’ll put it on my stationery back in Coronado and sign it. Least you can do.”

  Murdock walked away, leaving Stroh with his mouth open in surprise.

  * * *

  Murdock checked in with the men. Senior Chief Dobler walked over. He grinned.

  “Hey, Commander. Sent my wife Nancy two E-mail letters this morning. My leg even feels better, and I hear that we’re going to be heading home before long. Right? The men are asking.”

  “We get Canzoneri out of the hospital, take care of the burial at sea, and then we make the arrangements. So take a day or two off and relax.”

  “Oh. Guess I’m kind of anxious to get back and see Nancy. I bet she’s doing fine and all. You know. I get worried about her.”

  “I know. We should be out of here within three days, but don’t tell the men yet. I’m fighting with Stroh about chopping off our Sea Knight pickup when we finished the job.”

  “Hell, Skipper, we made it out. He was just following orders.”

  “Don’t get me started on that subject. Those damn orders cost us a man KIA. Quinley would not have been hit if they lifted us out of there when they were supposed to.” Murdock turned and walked away. He came back a minute later.

  “Sorry, Chief. It still bugs me. How are the men doing?”

  “Weapons all cleaned and ready to go. Restocking our vests with basic ammo and gear. We’ll be cleaned up here in an hour.”

  “Our liaison, Lieutenant Commander Kenney. Has he been around?”

  “No sir, but he called. Left a number.”

  Murdock called Kenny. “Yes, Commander, good to talk to you, too. I need your help on a few small matters. What are the carrier’s regs on a burial at sea, and how do we set it up for tomorrow?”

  “I’ll find out, Commander, and get back to you soonest. Anything else?”

  “Transport back to the States for my platoon.”

  “Mr. Stroh will handle that. I’ll take any excess ammunition or ordnance you have, equipment, that sort of thing. Didn’t I bring you some extra H&K MP-5s?”

  “You did. Senior Chief Dobler will talk to you about that. He should be about ready to turn all of that over to you.”

  “Good. I’ll find out about the burial. Sorry about your man. In this line of work that sometimes happens. I’ll have something for you on this right after lunch.”

  Murdock thanked him and said good-bye.

  He stared at the phone. He knew that Chief Dobler had Don Stroh’s number. He waited a half hour, then called.

  “Stroh. Sometime tomorrow morning we should have the burial of Les Quinley. Shortly after that I want to take off for the States. Please arrange our transport and have a COD on deck for our first leg to Panama or wherever we can get some land-based aircraft. Let me know if you can’t make these arrangements. I’ll let you know about the ceremony.”

  Stroh said he would get on it. “About this morning.”

  “What was said, was said. Let me cool off for a week or two, then I’ll be able to look at the whole thing with a little better perspective. I won’t hold still for my men getting killed. We can talk later.”

  Murdock hung up.

  29

  SEALs West Coast HQ

  Coronado, California

  Murdock eased into his chair behind his small desk in his office at SEAL Team Seven, Third Platoon, in Coronado, and tried to relax. It had been a series of good flights home. He even caught some sleep.

  As soon as they landed at North Island U.S. Naval Air Station late the night before, he and his four wounded men went to Balboa Naval Hospital to be checked over. They kept Canzoneri, not liking the way the knife slash on his left thigh looked. Fernandez was admitted. The doctors looked over his medical records that came with him and told Murdock it would be at least two weeks before they could think about releasing him.

  “That chest wound isn’t right. We may have to go in and find some more of the shattered round.”

  The doctors there checked and rebandaged Murdock’s wrist and Dobler’s thigh and Jaybird’s arm and released them.

  It was nearly 0400 by the time they got to the base and put away their combat gear.

  “I’m bunking out here until morning,” Dobler said. “I don’t want to charge home and scare Nancy and the kids. Tomorrow morning will be better.”

  Murdock said he’d be in about noon and headed for his apartment. When he pulled in his parking space, he saw a light in his front window. He grinned. No burglar, this one. Murdock ran up the steps and used his key on the door. Inside, he dropped his small bag and checked the living room couch.

  A long bundle wrapped in a blanket lay there. It was topped by a frowsy pile of blond hair. Murdock tiptoed to the couch, knelt beside it, and pushed the blanket back enough to kiss a pink nose.

  Ardith Manchester smiled in her sleep and turned so he found her lips. He kissed them and they responded. Her arms came out of the cover and wrapped around him.

  “Ha, bet you thought I was sleeping.”

  He kissed her again and she leaned back. “About time you showed up. You were scheduled in here at 1600 yesterday.”

  “We had an equipment delay in Miami.” He shook his head. “How in hell did you know our flight schedule?”

  She grinned at him.

  “I know, but tell me anyway. You’ve joined the CIA.”

  “Nope.” She kissed him quickly and chuckled. “This one you won’t believe. Dad knew about your mission and followed it. Then he remembered that he had been in school with the captain of the aircraft carrier Jefferson. They got in touch.”

  She frowned and reached for his left arm. “How is that wrist? Is it healing properly?”

  “Medics said so an hour ago.” He laughed. “Is there anything you don’t know about our work down in Colombia?”

  “Only that my dad called the White House twice when they were trying to figure out if they could do another flyover of Colombia to bring you out in a Sea Knight.”

  He stared at her in delighted surprise. “Lady, you might as well be in my hip pocket.” He stood and held out his hand. She came up from the couch with the grace of a coiled mountain cat. When the blanket slipped off her, he saw that she was delightfully naked.

  “Enough of this foreplay. Now I want you in my bed. Unless you know about our next mission and I have to fly out in less than two hours.”

  “No mission. I never know about them before they happen. Can’t help you there. I could brief you on the trouble spots of the world and the ones that the President and the Joint Chiefs and the CIA are the most concerned about.”

  “Don’t you dare. There have to be some surprises in life.”

  They didn’t get to sleep for almost two hours.

  * * *

  When morning came, Senior Chief Dobler rolled out of the bunk at Third Platoon HQ and shaved carefully. Then he put on his civvies, backed his four-year-old Honda out of the lot in front of the quarterdeck, and headed home.

  It was nearly 0730. The kids would be off to school, and he should be able to have a long talk with Nancy. He didn’t know what to expect. He’d sent her an E-mail after they returned to the carrier. She knew how to receive them, but wasn’t sure about sending them.

  When he left, she was just out of the hospital with bandages on both wrists. If anything bad had happened, he would have heard on the Jefferson. Master Chief MacKenzie would have tracked him down. He pulled the Honda into his parking space and looked at their ground-floor apartment. No activity. Good.

  Dobler hurried to the door, tried the handle, and found it unlocked. Yes. Kids were gone. He pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  Nancy came from the hall toward the kitchen. She
saw him and gave a little cry of joy as she rushed forward and threw her arms around him. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “So glad… so glad to have you home, baby. So damn glad.”

  “Good to be here. Kids in school?”

  “Just left. You’ve got a good pair of offspring there, sailor.”

  “Should be, my beautiful wife did most of the raising of them while I played in the deep blue sea.”

  They walked arm in arm into the living room and settled on the sofa. It was a long, demanding kiss, and Nancy fell backward on the couch and pulled him down on top of her.

  “I just want to feel you crushing me into the couch. Oh, my, yes.”

  Dobler was encouraged. Nancy had put on her at-home makeup. Her hair was neatly done. He figured she’d had it washed and set recently. Her blouse and slacks were ones that she liked.

  “Ask me how I’m doing. Go ahead.”

  “Baby, how are you doing?”

  “Oh, Dobe, better than I expected. The girls and I get together almost every day. We have coffee or go shopping. That Maria is a gem. Such a wonderful lady, and so good with the kids. I love her. We talk late at night sometimes on the phone.”

  She went to the kitchen and started coffee. He followed her.

  “I said we’d talk about the Navy when I came home. Is now a good time?”

  “No. I want to feed you breakfast. Bet you haven’t had any. You look like you had about three hours of sleep last night. Right?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know Milly, JG DeWitt’s live-in? She is a marvel. So smart and classy. She works full-time, but she came over three or four times while you were gone. She had some tough things to say to me about being a SEAL’s woman. Really tough. What it came down to was as women, we couldn’t change a SEAL. What we had to do was try to moderate and soften some of his life. To be the one to give and bend and accommodate, so the relationship could last. That Milly is one strong woman, and I’ve learned a lot from her.”

  Nancy stood at the stove, tall and straight, her chin up and her eyes glistening. “So, swabby, some coffee, eggs, bacon, and some French toast, then it’s off to bed with you for at least ten hours. After that, I have another idea what we might do in that same bed.”

  She grinned and turned to the stove. Senior Chief Dobler gave a short sigh. He was a lucky man. Nancy was going to do fine. They would still have the talk. He had decided right after he was shot that he was going to do what was best for his family. If Nancy wanted him out of SEALs action platoons, he would quit the next day. He could stay on the team, maybe in one of the specialty platoons. Hell, he could do two years without Third Platoon.

  If she wanted him out of the Navy, he could do that and give up the retirement. Twenty years wasn’t a big bunch of retirement pay, anyway. He’d see. What was best for his family was what he would do.

  Family had to come first. He remembered a star baseball player who had finished his contract with the San Diego Padres. Six other teams bid for him as a free agent. He turned down a $21.5 million contract with one team to sign for $9.5 million with the team where his family lived. He said he wanted to be closer to his family, to watch his kids grow up. Yeah, what a man. Family came first with Dobler, too.

  He didn’t realize how hungry he was until Nancy put down the platter in front of him with the eggs, French toast, bacon, and hash browns. Dobler ate it all.

  * * *

  Back in the Third Platoon office, Murdock stared at his roster. Damn, he needed another replacement. He’d been averaging one man lost to the platoon on each mission. Fernandez would be back. He’d hold the spot open for him through another mission if he had to. He liked the man, wanted him on board for a little more stability. Come to think of it, he hadn’t had to bail any of his men out of jail recently. There would come a time. Getting them bone weary on missions like this past one helped drain off the excess energy.

  Don Stroh. That was another matter. He had considered asking to be out from under the direct thumb of the CIA. He could ask but not necessarily get away. Stroh had set up the return transport, phoned Murdock on the carrier with the particulars, and that was the last Murdock had seen or heard from him.

  He didn’t fly back with them as he sometimes did. It must have been partly due to being embarrassed because he had to pull the plug on the chopper. It wasn’t his decision, but he had to deliver the message. By now Murdock had cooled down enough to realize Stroh’s position. He was a conduit, a lead wire, an input source. He didn’t make the regs or the rules or give the orders, he just transmitted them to the SEALs.

  Most of the SEALs showed up at the platoon quarters by noon. They stowed their gear and sat around talking.

  Ostercamp had a race to run that night at the El Cajon Speedway. A stock car. He had three wins so far this season.

  Ron Holt, Jaybird Sterling, and Paul Jefferson were going to a party that night out in Santee, a slightly rural area east of San Diego.

  “Hell, there’s more horses and rednecks in Santee than anywhere in the country,” Holt said. “I used to sleep with a broad out there last year until I got run out of town by some dude with a shotgun who claimed he was her common-law husband.”

  “That’s when he killed you,” Bradford jibed.

  “Hell no. I took the shotgun away from him, fired both rounds into the air, and then broke the damn gun in half. He came at me, so I broke his arm. Last I ever saw of him.”

  They all laughed. “Chances are as soon as you saw the shotgun you shit your pants and ran for your car.”

  “Naw, he was riding a pinto pony that night,” Lam shouted.

  Holt grinned. “So, any more of you numb nuts want to take in a real Western party? No boots or cowboy hats required.”

  They passed. Then Lam said he’d like to go.

  The party in the west edge of Santee, up against a hill, began at ten that evening. There was a four-piece Western band, a big patio set up for Western line dancing, and enough livestock around to make it look like a real ranch. The woman who owned it was a master programmer and systems computer analyst for a big outfit in San Diego’s own silicon valley.

  The four SEALs were on their best behavior. They danced, learned the simple line movements, and had enough beers to keep them happy.

  About midnight, four motorcycles roared into the front of the parked cars and four big bikers got off their rigs.

  Janie, the owner of the place met them with a cattle prod.

  “Who the hell are you guys, and who invited you?” Janie shouted in her usual diplomatic style.

  “We’re the four riders from hell, and we go where we want to go, little bimbo. You ever had it twice in a row on the back of a Harley?”

  “Get your ass off my property,” Janie said. “I don’t want you here, and I’m the honcho of this outfit. Now go.”

  Another one of the quartet spoke up. He had on studded leathers and a huge beer belly, but he looked as hard as a much-used branding iron.

  “Little bitch in heat, we don’t make trouble, we just answer it. Now step aside, and let us see your party.”

  Janie lunged at him with the cattle prod, which could send out a serious jolt of electric charge into whatever it hit. The tip of the prod connected with his thigh and zapped. The big man didn’t even seem to notice. He grabbed the rod, jerked it out of Janie’s hand, and reversed it. He found the trigger, and before Janie could scramble out of the way, he touched it to her shoulder.

  Janie bellowed in pain and staggered back. The four laughed and surged past her to the patio. They helped themselves to beers and called loud sexual suggestions to the women dancing.

  Paul Jefferson left the other SEALs to go for another beer. He passed just in front of the four bikers.

  One of them reached out a foot and tried to trip him. Jefferson, at 6' 1" and 200 pounds, was slightly smaller than all of the bikers. He daggered a look at them and went on to the iced tubs with the beer. When he took out a bottle and turned, the four were ringe
d in front of him.

  “What’s a nigger like you doing at a nice white party like this, boy?” the biggest of the bikers snarled.

  “I was invited,” Jefferson said, taking a step past the four.

  “Not by us you weren’t, Africano,” another of the bikers said.

  “You got to learn your place, black man. This ain’t it. This is white man’s territory.”

  “Everyone is entitled to his own—” It was as far as Jefferson made it before the closest man whipped out a right fist and caught the SEAL on the side of the head and drove him backward. There a biker caught him and slammed his fist into Jefferson’s gut. When Jefferson doubled over in agony, the biker’s knee rammed upward, hitting him in the jaw and dumping Jefferson into the grass.

  Somebody shouted to stop it.

  One of the bikers moved his leg back to kick Jefferson, who writhed on the ground.

  Jaybird and Holt saw the attack and ran through the people to the scene. Jaybird made it just in time to shoulder-block the kicker before he struck, blasting him backward so hard he sprawled in the dirt. Jaybird whirled as he sensed someone behind him. He blocked a big fist coming at him and drove his foot upward into the biker’s crotch. The man dropped like a shot steer.

  Holt tackled another biker and pushed him back out of the fight for a moment. When the much larger biker recovered, he slashed a fist at Holt and knocked him down. He tried to kick Holt, who grabbed the foot and jerked it forward, pulling the biker off balance. Holt lifted his boot so he kicked the biker in the stomach as he fell, jolting him to the left, out of the fight.

  Lam came in late, just in time to take on the largest biker. The motorcycle rider unhooked a bike chain from his waist and began swinging it in a circle. Everyone else backed off.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Janie bellowed. “I told you fucking bikers to leave. Now scat.” She waved a six-gun with a short barrel. The biker and Lam didn’t notice. They circled each other warily. Lam whipped off his three-inch-wide belt that had a heavy brass buckle on the end.